Night
by Blonded
Summary: He pretends to be a careless playboy. She pretends to fall in love with wealthy men. But at night, in the dark, the masks slip, and the truth is revealed.
1. PART I: platinum

_Author's Note: Well, here we have it, folks, my first-ever_ Batman Begins _fic. As you can very well tell, I'm pretty new to the fandom, so if you've got any suggestions or concrit for me, I'll be extremely grateful! I've never tried writing Bruce Wayne before, and I don't see him as a necessarily monogomous character, so the thought of doing a romance fic involving him seemed like a fun challenge. So here we go._

_Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own the characters from the DC Comics franchise, _Batman._ The interpretation of these characters, also, is based on the vision of Christopher Nolan and his cast, as illustrated in _Batman Begins _and _The Dark Knight.

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**Night**

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Part I: Long Cool Woman

**platinum.**

She scratched her nose with her long, acrylic nails, studying herself carefully in the mirror. Her brow furrowed, and she rubbed the last traces of white powder from her nostril, glancing nonchalantly at the other women crowded in the restroom. She caught the eye of a skank with a tacky dye-job and a bad fake tan, and her paranoia lessened considerably. She didn't look anywhere near as wasted as that woman...but just to be certain, she looked her reflection in the eye again. The corner of her mouth turned in a smirk.

Sal better be here tonight; the asshole underboss she'd given a handjob had said he was "a hundred and ten percent" certain the crime lord would make an appearance, and she was determined to find him. When he'd thrown her out of her apartment a week ago, she'd looked like hell: pale and shaking with nausea, her hair a mess. She couldn't exactly blame him for trading up to a new goomarah; she'd gotten sloppy.

She didn't look sloppy tonight. One glance at her legs in these heels and Sal Maroni would be renting her a bigger, better apartment--she was sure of it. And even if he wasn't trying to win her back on sight...well, she knew the right ways to go about charming Sal...

"Where'd you get your dress?" the skank was talking to her, now. Without glancing away from her own reflection, she tossed her golden curls over her shoulder and answered blandly:

"I don't remember."

Which, at this point, was not entirely untrue. She knew Sal had given it to her a couple weeks ago, and that it would have been expensive if not for his connections. He'd said the designer would be a big deal in the next four months; she had to take his word on that. She turned to leave, pushing through the crowd of Barbie doll women to the door.

The blaring music and pulsing lights immediately assaulted her cocaine-heightened senses. She took a deep breath and blinked hard, trying to get a tighter grip on reality. Everything was too sharp, too clear; something in the back of her mind very strongly regretted doing that extra line. She ran her tongue over her lips and attempted to focus. The bar was to her right. _The bar's to the right, the bar's to your right, to the right--_

She straightened her back and strode towards the bar as if she was on the catwalk. Her dark eyes locked with the bartender's long before she reached the mess of people ordering drinks; his dorky smile and awkward hands said he hadn't been laid in a while. She slipped to the front of the bar with relative easiness: she'd barely eaten since she'd lost the apartment, and her svelt form was looking even slimmer than usual.

"Hey there."

The bartender's brow furrowed, and he leaned closer, asking her to repeat herself.

"I said hi," she told him, slouching against the bar to give him a better view down her diving neckline. He tried to keep his eyes up and swallowed.

"What can I get you?"

She looked him over as if she was genuinely interested. "Sal Maroni. Is he in here?"

The bartender's shoulders jerked a shrug. "Jeeze, I don't know. He'd be up in the VIP lounge if he was--"

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Yeah, I know that, but have they sent any drinks up? Has he ordered anything?"

"Look, I don't--"

He stopped mid-sentence, his attention instantly pulled away to something considerably more important. She frowned and followed his eyes, noticing the man leaning nonchalantly beside her. Her breath caught, too.

"M-Mr. Wayne. What can I do for you? Is there a problem?" The bartender's voice hiked two octaves as he struggled to maintain his cool.

The billionaire glanced at her and winked before looking back at the nervous man in front of him. "The problem is you've got a waitress with a twisted ankle upstairs and no sign of your manager. You mind getting a hold of him for me?"

The bartender bobbled his head a few times before skittering off, much to the noisy displeasure of his waiting customers. Bruce Wayne's brow furrowed, and he muttered to no one in particular:

"I was thinking he could just page him or something..."

She laughed quietly, just so that he knew she was listening to him. Her met her eyes again and smiled.

"I'm Bruce Wayne."

She smirked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I know."

He looked better than his prints in the paper; his smile seemed more suave. Her heart quickened with the inkling of this new prospect: Bruce Wayne was considerably wealthier than Sal--and it was common knowledge that seducing the playboy was no difficult task. Bruce Wayne went through women faster than he went through Armani suits...but so had Sal Maroni, before he met her.

She ran her tongue over her lips as he offered her his hand.

"Do you have a name?"

She gripped his hand lightly, flashing a flirtacious smile. "Jessica Sinclair."

"Well." His gaze slid approvingly down her body before returning shamelessly back to her gaze. "Have you ever been to the VIP lounge here?"

"A couple times," she said.

His eyebrows rose for a moment, and his hand tightened on hers. "Alright. Then let's go somewhere else."

Jessica let him lead her away from the bar, watching his smug face with an amused feeling of accomplishment. Everyone knew Bruce Wayne could have any woman he wanted--and usually did. But she wasn't about to be another one of his inumerable easy nights--the Wayne trust fund was much too large for that.


	2. rolls royce

_Author's Note: So this update took a while. Sorry about that! Hopefully they'll be coming quicker now that I have more time. Thanks to all who reviewed! I really appreciate your comments!_

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**Night**

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**rolls-royce.**

She was a beautiful woman--but short of her appearance, Bruce couldn't find much interesting about Jessica Sinclair. She had a flirty smile, and stared at him intently when he spoke, nodding even when she didn't understand what he was talking about. He appreciated that she was a focused listener who constantly flattered his intelligence, but after ten minutes of unprotested rambling, Bruce was bored. Even the dullest socialite found the need to present some weak argument to his opinions on politics...or film...or music--at least for the sake of banter. But Jessica only listened and nodded, smiling between sips of an excellent chardonnay.

Bruce cleared his throat now, reaching for his scotch and water. The inside of his limosuine became instantly silent; Jessica recrossed her legs and watched him take a drink. He glanced back at her and smiled, reaching his free hand over to touch her knee.

"So what about you?"

She blinked a few times, her brow furrowing. "What _about_ me?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't know. Where are you from? What do you do?" he smirked a little. "What kind of pie do you like? You know, stuff like that."

Jessica glanced up at the closed sun roof and ran her tongue over her lips. "Oh, jeeze..."

"What?"

She shrugged and took another sip of wine. "I don't know. I'm not that interesting."

He scoffed. "Well neither am I, but you've been sitting here listening to me drone on for the last eternity."

Jessica looked at him and smiled. "You weren't droning."

"It felt like I was droning."

Jessica kept smiling and glanced out the window. Bruce sighed, a little frustrated. He tried again: "So...what about you?"

She laughed, looking back at him coyly. "There's nothing to tell."

"There's never _nothing."_

Jessica stared at him, pursing her lips together in thought. Her eyes brightened with an idea, and a sexy, relaxed smile stretched across her face. "No...but I think I'd rather be mysterious."

Bruce was slightly amused. _"Mysterious?"_

"Yeah, like...like Mary Astor...a _Maltese Falcon_ type, you know?"

He grinned in something like triumph. "So you like old movies..."

Her smile slid to a smirk; she leaned closer and shook her head. "I like kissing."

Bruce figured that was incentive enough; he closed the space between them and attempted to land a kiss on her mouth, but she turned her face away. He took her chin in his hand and gently turned her to face him. He didn't hide the confusion in his eyes.

"I'm very good at it, too."

He smiled boyishly, glancing hungrily at her lips. "Then kiss me."

Jessica looked at his mouth, but her eyes traveled intentionally downwards. Bruce jerked a little in surprise when he felt her hand resting on his belt. She rose an eyebrow and looked him in the eye again.

"Where?"

Bruce looked away, his body stiffening. He wasn't going to assume anything, but...well, she'd hardly said a word about herself all night, and she called herself Jessica Sinclair--which, of course, could be a real name, but sounded very much like a made-up alias--something sexy and alluring. And her hair was practically platinum blonde, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd been tricked into becoming clientel if she happened to be...He glanced at her cautiously, a little afraid to ask:

"You're not a--I mean, I'm not saying I think you are, but...you're not wanting me to pay you for this or anything, right?"

Her throat jerked with a swallow; she slid away from him quickly. Even as she was reaching for her purse, her spine steeled and her shoulders tense, Bruce was appologizing. He felt like kicking himself; God, what an idiot. What a stupid, stupid--

"Can you pull over?" she was asking the driver in a strained voice. He couldn't even get her to look at him. She was opening the door before the limo even reached a complete stop. Before she could vault out of the car, Bruce grabbed a hold of her elbow, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Listen, I'm sorry," he breathed desperately. "I'm sorry. You just seemed so--"

_"Easy?"_ she snapped, attempted to tug free of him.

"No, that's not what I meant--"

"I don't care what you meant! You thought I was a hooker, so fuck you."

"I'm _sorry,"_ he tried again. She wrenched free of him and slipped out of the car, walking quickly and fiercely down the sidewalk. Bruce followed after her, jogging to match her steps. "Look, Jessica, I was just being stupid."

She laughed humorlessly, trying to walk faster. "I don't even care. Why don't you go find somebody else to screw around with and leave me alone?"

A strange sense of guilt pulsed through his veins; he took her elbow again and slowed the two of them to a stop.

"Jessica, I'm sorry. I really am. I want to make it up to you."

"Why?" she demanded, glancing at his hand on her arm. "Just because I'm probably the only girl in the whole city who won't sleep with you now? It bothers you that much?"

Bruce's stomach clenched a little; something in her words stung. He shook his head, looking her honestly in the eye. "No...because I hurt your feelings and I don't want you to think I'm a...a jerk or anything."

Her body relaxed a little. She glanced away from him, running her tongue over her lips. "You know, it's not possible to make everybody like you."

He snorted, his mind buzzing with the irony. But he pushed his thoughts away and turned his attention back to her. "Will you let me take you out tomorrow night?"

She glared at him with a hawkish skepticism. "To dinner?"

"To a party."

Jessica scoffed, glancing down at her dress. "I wouldn't have anything to wear to the kind of parties you go to."

Bruce sighed and reached into his jacket pocket, procuring his ridiculously thick wallet. He thumbed out hundreds like loose change and held out a handful to her. Jessica's eyes widened; her fingers hovered over the money in perplexion.

"Then go find something to wear."

She stared up at him, her pretty mouth hanging open. He smirked, smugly satisfied with her reaction.

"I won't take no for an answer."

She sighed, nodding her head slowly and barely whispering an "alright." Bruce slipped back into the limosuine, feeling accomplished. When he glanced out the tinted window, Jessica was still standing there, but her look of wonderment was gone. Her broad smile reminded him of an actress on Oscar night.


	3. cartier

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Night

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**cartier.**

He'd given her close to five thousand dollars in cash. It was stupid of him, and that fact excited Jessica even as it incited her skepticism. She didn't know much about Bruce Wayne, but she would have never assessed him an idiot. Lavish, immature, and bored, certainly--but not stupid. Stupidity was one luxury a billionaire couldn't afford: she was well aware.

Jessica had taken his money and checked into a room at a higher-end hotel; since Maroni's boot, she had been forced to conserve her measely funds and stay at some dump with stained carpet and a lazy custodial staff. She was exceptionally grateful for Bruce's hand-out (she'd hardly expected to milk _that _much out of a feigned insult) as she stepped into her new room, but she couldn't seem to shake a certain level of uneasiness.

Had he seen through her? Maybe the offer had been a set-up, to see if she would take the money from him. She had played up her anger very well--she'd felt pretty good about it at the time--but what if he was only testing her? Perhaps she should not have taken his money. She couldn't have him already thinking that his bank account was her principle goal. If he was catching on _now,_ she was already finished.

Taking a breath, she opened her suitcase and began to unpack her various cocktail dresses and evening wear. She frowned at the wrinkles in the delicate fabric; she'd have to have everything sent out, and soon, if she wanted something to wear tonight.

_If_ she was even going anywhere tonight. She hadn't given him any contact information--all he had was her name, and God knew how many Jessica Sinclairs there were in Gotham. Maybe that's why he had given her such a large amount--he wasn't intending to take her anywhere at all. He just wanted her quiet and satisfied, so that she couldn't raise any tabloid hype about Bruce Wayne trying to pay for sexual favors.

Jessica sighed, tossing the dresses on the floor. That was probably it. Well...she could hardly complain about five thousand dollars. She was already doing better than she was a day ago, and with any luck she could find Sal tonight. With another sigh, she picked up as many dresses as she could hold and flopped them on the bed; she'd be needing them dry-cleaned after all. She returned to the suitcase to search for hangers, her mind scrambling for a new game plan.

It was Saturday, which meant Sal would be taking his wife out to dinner. So it really wouldn't be worth trying to track him down any earlier than midnight. Or she could just forget tonight altogether and take the time to sleep. He'd be out and about tomorrow, but it would be all business, which would make it next-to-impossible to find him--unless, of course, she coaxed some two-bit underboss with her bedroom talents. But she'd rather not--

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Ms. Sinclair?" the muffled voice in the hallway perked her interest; Jessica stood up, hangers still clenched in her hand, and crossed the room. She opened the door and looked curiously at the bellboy. He held out a little envelope. "This just came for you."

She took the envelope from him and closed the door without a "thank you," perplexed by the unfamiliar handwriting. Jessica quickly ripped open the seal and pulled out a square, neat little card with the vague note:

_Be in the lobby at 8:00._

The Wayne Enterprises watermark was a fairly obvious indicator as to who had sent the note; even so, her stomach twisted a little with apprehension. How had he known she was here, in this hotel, in this room--that it was really her and not some other woman with the same name? Wealthy men had connections, certainly; Sal had had her followed and tracked virtually every time she stepped out of the apartment. But that was a different situation. He was a high-profile criminal and Jessica was his more-or-less public girlfriend. She had felt relatively safe having Sal's men trailing her--and she had known it was happening. Being watched without her knowledge or consent was another thing entirely.

Jessica returned to her bed and began putting her dresses on the available hangers. She'd wear the Chanel Sal had bought her last spring--Chanel was timeless enough, and anyway, Bruce was probably too much of a man to notice that it was last season. Besides, he had to have expected that she would pocket some of the cash, unless he really was a blockhead.

She froze for a moment, her eyes staring thoughtfully at the shiny fabric. She was moderately certain that Bruce Wayne was not a blockhead, and that bothered her. He couldn't be so stupid as to hand off a load of money to a stranger and then go through all the trouble of finding her, just so she could be his date to a party. He _couldn't_ be that stupid...and she couldn't be that lucky.

Jessica ran her tongue over her lips, struggling to think. Maybe he thought she had something he wanted...but what? She wasn't anybody important. She didn't have anything, or--or know anything. She wasn't any use to him...

She glanced up, catching a glimpse of the view outside her window. The enormous Wayne building broke the skyline and glared at her in the mid-morning sun. She left her mess of clothes for the time being and wandered towards the window, staring down at the city below.

Across the street from the hotel was a little Italian cafe Sal and his friends always went to for coffee. As if on cue, a caramel-colored Rolls-Royce pulled up the curb, parking in front of a fire hydrant. Jessica's breath caught a little as a form that was certainly Sal's stepped out of the back seat and walked into the restaurant. With a little begging, she could probably talk him into sending a guy to follow her--keep an eye on things.

Recalling the fierce expression on the gangster's face the day he kicked her out of the apartment, Jessica reconsidered. It was probably best not to approach Sal unless she was absolutely dedicated to grovelling. And as long as Bruce Wayne was a prospect, she wasn't ready to grovel.

With a sigh, Jessica walked back to the bed and picked up the phone on the side table. Maybe she was just being paranoid. God knew Bruce had money to blow--and everyone knew he typically blew it on women. Five thousand dollars was a big deal to her, but it probably wasn't a big deal to him. And...and so what if he had found her? It didn't take a CIA investigation to track a person down anymore. Besides, he was _Bruce Wayne._ If he decided he wanted to take her to a party, he'd use all the available means...right? He wasn't the kind of guy who needed a Plan B.

Still...

_"Still" what?_ She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. With a ruthless sigh, she pressed the button that connected her to the front desk and asked to have someone sent up to take her laundry.


	4. absolut

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Night

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**absolut.**

Alfred set down the mug of coffee in front of Bruce and returned to the kitchen. Bruce craned his neck to see why he had left; a moment later, Alfred returned with a cup of tea for himself and took a seat across the table. The older man let out a sigh, his knees popping as he settled himself in his chair. He glanced up at Bruce curiously, taking a sip of his tea.

"Everything alright, Master Wayne?"

Bruce blinked a few times and nodded slowly. "Rachel's coming over for lunch today."

"Yes, I remember." Alfred studied him a moment. "Aren't you pleased to see her? It's been a while."

Bruce lifted his mug to his lips, but didn't take a sip. He stared at the coffee, entranced by the dark, steaming liquid. "She's been spending all her time with Harvey Dent."

Alfred frowned thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. "The politician?"

Bruce almost rolled his eyes, but stopped himself. He took a drink of coffee and nodded his head. "'I _believe_ in Harvey Dent.'"

Alfred's brow raised. "Do I detect a touch of bitterness in your tone?"

The younger man's gaze shot up, and his butler shrugged. "Must just be the time of the morning."

Bruce sighed loudly and took another sip. Alfred watched him with something between sympathy and amusement wrought on his face. He drank his tea in tranquility, reaching for the paper--folded and unread. He scanned the headline with mild interest. Without even looking up:

"Who are you taking to the benefit banquet tonight, Master Wayne?"

Bruce heaved a rather ruthless-sounding sigh. Alfred glanced at him.

"Sal Maroni's girlfriend."

Alfred sat up, ignoring the paper for the time being. "Well...you think she knows something?"

Bruce shrugged. "We'll see if she does."

"Uh-_huh."_ Something in Alfred's expression made Bruce feel as if he was thirteen years old again. "And is your little moll aware that you're using her for her connections?"

Bruce shot him a look. "She doesn't even know that I know who her boyfriend is."

"As far as you know."

He shrugged again. As he lifted his mug to his lips, he couldn't help chuckling to himself. He shook his head and took a sip; Alfred watched him curiously.

"Something you'd like to share?"

Bruce tried to pin down his smile. "I, uh...I mistook her for a prostitute."

"_On purpose,_ of course."

The billionaire looked away, a guilty grin slung across his face. "Well...yes and no."

"'And _no'?"_

Bruce scratched the back of his neck, a little embarrassed. "I needed to make sure I had the right girl."

Alfred looked at him with chiding eyes and shook his head, but he was smiling as he lifted his cup to his lips. "I do hope you appreciate what that mug of yours does for you."

Bruce laughed and opened his mouth to say something, but the chimes of the doorbell interrupted him. He shared a look of confusion with his butler; the older man sighed and started to get out of the chair. Bruce shook his head and motioned for him to stay sitting. He stood up and walked quickly through the adjacent rooms to the front door. He met Rachel's bright green eyes through the glass pane. He smiled as he unlocked and opened the door; she smiled back, but the motion was fleeting and nervous.

"What are you doing here already? I thought we were meeting for lunch."

She huffed a weary sigh. "It's this Moxon trial--everybody's working overtime, and I'm skipping lunch so I can make it to the benefit...Anyway, I have to make this quick, or I'll be late."

God, she was beautiful. Breathless and a little windblown, she stood just in the doorway--shifting her weight anxiously. He wanted to take her in his arms and just hold her--feel her body relax against his. She adjusted her purse on her shoulder and glanced at the floor, as if she needed to concentrate on what she was about to say. He frowned, taking her hand in concern.

"You're not in trouble or anything, are you?"

She forced a little smile and looked up at him. She gently slipped her hand out of his grasp. "No, I'm doing very well, Bruce..."

Rachel took a breath, a brief silence filling the space between them. "Look...This is really a little strange for me to say, I guess...It's silly that I'm making such a big deal out of it." She straightened her shoulders and looked him squarely in the eye. "Harvey asked me to move in with him...and I agreed."

Bruce looked at her blankly for a moment, an unreadable expression passing over his face before he smiled sadly. "Oh...um, congratulations."

She glanced down at her shoes, and then cautiously met his eyes again. "I just...wanted to let you know--from me."

His shoulders jerked in a stiff shrug. She took a step backwards, towards the door. She watched him uncertainly as she turned to go.

"I'll see you tonight, then?"

Bruce nodded. She paused, biting her lip thoughtfully. She tried to catch his gaze, but he wouldn't quite look at her. "Are you okay?"

For a moment, his face looked conflicted, and concern filled her eyes.

"Rachel..." But the look passed, and he was faking a nonchalant smile again. "Nevermind. Good luck with the case."

She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it quickly. With a polite little nod, she turned and left, hurrying back to her car. Bruce watched her for a moment, his chest tightening with each passing moment.

_Harvey Dent._ She was moving in with Harvey Dent: the beach boy politician with the cheesy campaign slogan. He was going to get to sleep next to her _every night_--and wake up beside her every morning. And if he was asking her to move in...then how much longer would it be before he was picking out rings at Cartier?


	5. chanel

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Night

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**chanel.**

"Well."

She glanced up at him and smiled, enjoying the glint of lust in his eye. The Chanel always had been a hit with Sal: black and simple with a deadly neckline. Jessica had never really been much of one for fashion. She liked the classics; the stuff garaunteed to catch an eye. And so she had stuck with what she knew that night: a black dress, high heels, loose curls, and red lipstick. Jewelry wasn't necessary--specifically because Sal had taken back every last karat of diamonds he'd given her. She reminded herself half-heartedly that jewelry was distracting...but as they walked into the banquet hall, she couldn't help longing for the precious stones adorning the other guests.

He squeezed her hand, leaning in close to whisper: "You look nervous."

She kind of smiled. "This isn't exactly my crowd."

He didn't seem too surprised, but a curious look passed over his face. "Oh, yeah? Who is your crowd?"

She opened her mouth to tell him about Sal--it was something of a bragging point, and she knew the idea of sleeping with a murdering mob boss intrigued people--but was interrupted when a half-drunk business associate slapped Bruce on the shoulder.

"Wayne! Good to see you mingling with the common folk!"

He laughed. "Even the city officials need a little party once in a while."

The other man found this extraordinarily hilarious for some reason; Jessica figured it was the Absolut in his martini. She felt him looking at her, and smiled back politely.

"This is Jessica Sinclair," Bruce supplied with a smug smile. "Jessica, this is Harry Goldberg."

Harry shook her hand.

"A pleasure._ Anyway,"_ he said, tearing his eyes away with an ease that she found somewhat insulting, "Did you see the news this morning, Wayne? Dent's approval ratings shot up like twenty percent. I think that guy's gonna be the new DA."

Bruce looked bored. "It's just 'cause he's young. Everybody likes a fresh face."

"Aren't you voting for him, Wayne?" the man's shock was borderline ridiculous. "He said the best deal that...Scarecrow--_and_ any other big criminal--is gonna get is twenty-five to life, no bail, no parole for the first ten years. Can you believe the balls on this guy?"

"I'd like to see him deliver that one." Bruce shook his head.

His friend scoffed. "Come on, Wayne, you gotta admire the guy. It's a promise to be tough." He elbowed Jessica a little harder than he probably intended. "How 'bout you, sweetheart? You're votin' for Harvey Dent, aren't you?"

She smiled uncomfortably. "Oh, I don't know...I probably won't vote--"

The drunk businessman reeled a little, eyes bugging out of his head. He turned his awestruck glare to Bruce. "You gotta get this girl to vote, Wayne. You gotta--"

"Say, it's been really nice talking politics with you, Harry, but we're going to get some drinks."

Harry smiled, bobbling his head. "Absolutely, Wayne. Anytime. You take care now--alright?"

Bruce nodded, politely inching away from his long-winded friend. He shot him one last, dazzling smile, calling over his shoulder: "You see Dent around here, you tell him to come talk to me."

"That I will, Wayne. You have a nice evening now." He winked at Jessica. "And you keep an eye on him--keep the boy out of trouble."

She gave him a fleeting smile, turning her attention easily back to Bruce. He looked at her appologetically, and she giggled.

"Well, come on, _Wayne,"_ she mimicked, leaning into him. "Buy me a drink."

He rolled his eyes, but his smile was amused. He slipped his hand out of hers and draped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. Could this man get any easier?

"So..." he sighed nonchalantly. "You were saying this wasn't your crowd."

She glanced at him in surprise, but nodded her head. "Well...not exactly."

"'Not exactly'?"

They had reached the bar. She asked for a glass of merlot and he was served scotch and water, no request necessary. Jessica rose and eyebrow and he shrugged, taking a sip from his glass. She leaned against the bar as they waited for her wine.

"I used to date Sal Maroni," she told him casually, thanking the bartender for her drink with a little smile. Taking a sip, she met his interested eyes.

"The mobster?"

She shrugged. He leaned forward a little, his smile too charming to be refused. "So what was that like?"

She took another sip of wine. "He kept a loaded gun on the bedstand and was always gone by morning."

But he was hardly satisfied. "So...what? You've got no stories? You didn't see a guy get killed in front of you? Nothing?"

Jessica giggled, and he smiled. "Did I ever see a guy get killed? Seriously, _Wayne?"_

He glanced at his drink, shaking his head. "Don't call me that."

Her eyebrows rose playfully; she quickly traded her expression to feigned ignorance. "Call you what?"

"You know what."

She shrugged, taking another drink. "I don't know what you're talking about, Wayne."

He sighed heavily, casting her a warning look. She giggled, meeting his dark eyes. "So what do you want to know?"

"I don't know. Doesn't he have a wife?"

She nodded, a little embarrassed. She hadn't expected him to bring that up. "Well...yeah."

"So where did you go?"

Her body relaxed a little; so he wasn't going to give her morals an interrogation. Thank God. "I don't know. Everywhere. He liked to go places he owned. La Vita, The Granite Table, Riverway--"

Bruce's eyes widened. "He doesn't own Riverway."

She shrugged. "He never paid for a meal there."

_"I_ own Riverway."

Jessica stifled a laugh with a little more wine. "That's what you think, honey."

He shook his head; she saw his jaw lock, and premonitions of panic began to filter through her veins. She could feel her heart pumping faster, and she breathed in sharply.

"Look, I didn't...I don't know that for a fact. Maybe it wasn't Riverway--"

He caught her fearful glance, and his eyes softened. "That will never come back against you. I swear."

She wanted to relax, but Jessica's body was still filled with apprehension. That was easy for him to say. He wasn't the one who'd get his tongue cut out for shooting his mouth off about Sal Maroni. She swallowed, taking another uneasy gulp of merlot.

"He's a dangerous man, Bruce," she told him quietly. "I'm just saying."

He nodded slowly, bringing his scotch to his lips. His eyes were far off as he took a long sip, grimacing a little at the burning liquid. She ran her tongue over her lips and tried to gain his attention again.

"I guess I'm not used to being around honest people."

He looked at her and smiled sadly, and something in his eyes ignited her sympathy...and her fear. There was something dark and grim about his gaze, about the way he was smiling. And even though she knew he was Bruce Wayne, the wealthiest man in Gotham--a man who bought restaurants and hotels for fun, and studded his arms with models and actresses--he looked like a sham.

"Hey, Wayne--"

The familiar voice startled both of them, and they turned to meet Harry Goldberg's eyes again. Jessica held back a groan and smiled at him.

"Thought I'd get a refill and let you know--Dent's not showing up tonight. Harlow says he's taking the night off with his girlfriend."

Bruce just looked at him. Jessica didn't see his throat twitch, but it did seem to her that his sarcasm was a little...forced:

"Oh, jee, now that is a shame. Guess you'll just have to introduce me some other time, Harry."

"Absolutely, Wayne, absolutely."

Jessica pinned back her smile until Harry had his drink and had drifted away from the bar. She looked at Bruce with laughing eyes, but his face was set in a thoughtful frown. He picked up his drink and threw the rest of the scotch down his throat in one gulp. He coughed, blinking heavily a few times before turning to look at her. Something about his lazy smile seemed false.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

And before she had a chance to offer him a coy retort, he'd taken her in his arms and pulled her into his kiss. Surprised and delighted, she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning into his embrace. He pulled away from her suddenly; his eyes were on her lips when he breathlessly asked her:

"Do you want to get out of here?"

She nodded.

And he swept her into an endless whirl, pulling her out of the banquet hall and into his limosuine and his arms again. They sped down city blocks for seconds, minutes, hours--she had no way of telling, caught in the darkness of her closed eyelids and his straying hands and lips. She opened her eyes and they were in an elevator, and he was impatient, tapping his foot on the glassy floor and glaring at the doors. She leaned against him and kissed his neck until the bell _dinged_ and they reached his penthouse.

He shoved her against a wall, drowning her in his kiss until she could hardly breathe. Her fingers fumbled with his suit jacket in the darkness; he threw it off of his shoulders and gripped the skirt of her dress in his hands, pulling it up above her hips. She opened his eyes and met his questioning gaze; struggling for her breath, she gave him a weak nod and he unbuttoned his pants. She smiled and lured him into her kiss, holding him tightly as he buried himself in her.

They made love with their eyes closed.


	6. ferrari

_Author's Note: For some reason, this chapter took FOREVER to write, and I appologize! Just couldn't get that creativity flowing...Anyway, I just thought I'd take the time to thank all of my lovely reviewers! I appreciate your support and feedback immensely!_

* * *

**Night**

* * *

**ferrari.**

Bruce sat up slowly, casting a glance over the rumpled sheets and settling his gaze on the girl sleeping soundly in them. Guilt seeped steadily into his veins; this wasn't supposed to happen. He touched her hair gently, a sickening feeling turning his stomach. It shouldn't matter...it _didn't_ matter. It...

He sighed, unwinding his fingers from the tangled, golden strands. He would have given anything for the head on that pillow to be dark brown, for the body in the bed to be _hers._ But Rachel's polar opposite was slumbering next to him, and it was absolutely his own fault. He shouldn't have brought her back here. And he shouldn't have pulled her into his bedroom after their little tryst in the hallway. She'd be here til morning...and then what?

His eyes drifted to the wide window, staring up at the dark, cloudy sky. He couldn't make out the moon, but the pale, familiar glow plastered against the city nightscape immediately caught his attention. He frowned thoughtfully, his gaze deliberating between the time (nearly 3:00...hmm) and the girl. Her lips were parted, and a little snore wheezed out of her nose.

Carefully, he slid out of bed. He tripped over the Chanel dress, quickly regaining his balance. Somewhere around here, he'd lost his boxers...and there was his undershirt. He picked them up and put them on quickly. He padded down the hallway to a quiet little annex and pushed against a large sqare of granite in the wall. The hidden door opened and he slipped inside.

The room was very small and very dark. He reached up above him and pulled on a chain dangling from the ceiling. The tiny space was filled with light; to anyone but Bruce Wayne and the few that knew better, the room would have been a huge disappointment. Unfinished, he was surrounded on one side in drywall and only insulation on the other. In front of him, stacked floor to ceiling, were cardboard boxes--all labeled in Alfred's handwriting. He reached for a rather large one at the top that said it was storing "spare parts" and set it on the floor.

He had his suit on in a few moments. Pushing against the drywalled wall opened another portal: this one revealing a cast-iron elevator that took him straight to the roof of his penthouse. Taking a breath, he engaged his memory-foam wings and took a dive.

The MCU building was a few blocks away, and he liked the idea of "flying" there. But his body was pulling towards the ground much sooner than he would have liked, and Bruce had to make a landing on a shorter building. With a sigh, he stretched his arms a little and pushed off again. He would have to talk to Lucius about extending air time on these things.

When he stepped onto the roof of the MCU building, Gordon was staring off in a different direction. The older cop turned around, a little smile creasing his face.

"I about know I have to be looking somewhere else if I want you to show up."

Bruce cleared his throat, his voice descending into more guttural tones. "You called?"

Gordon sighed, scratching the back of his neck. "I swear, we've got almost every money launderer in this town behind bars, and Maroni's still buying cars and suits like candy. We've got accountants working day and night on his numbers, and I still have no idea where he's stashing the difference." He laughed mirthlessly. "Don't suppose you could go check under his mattress..."

"Are there any leads?"

"Our Maroni informants say it's all Gamble, our Gamble informants say it's all Maroni." He shook his head in frustration. "Whoever it is, he's working just with the top dogs, and he doesn't want too many people to know who he is."

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. "A legitimate businessman?"

"That's what we're thinking." Gordon chuckled. "Although, in this town...what's that mean?"

Bruce kept his gaze steady on the other man. "We've found the others--we'll find this one."

Gordon glanced down, shifting his weight anxiously. He reached into his back pocket. "There's something else."

He handed him a plastic bag. In the glare of the floodlight, the Joker card and the words typed on it became apparent. Bruce sighed: "'And your enemies closer.'"

"It was found in the Fiducia Bank vault after the robbery on Saturday."

"Fiducia. That's one of Maroni's banks."

Gordon nodded. "And that message--it's a _Godfather_ reference." He snorted under his breath. "Looks like someone else's taking on the Mob, too."

"Are you worried?" Bruce asked as quietly as his vocal disguise could allow. Gordon's brow rose a little.

"Bank robbery's not exactly unique around here," he murmured. "But a _mob bank_...I'm a little worried about this guy's sanity."

Bruce sighed shortly. "If this guy wants to play chicken with Maroni, we'll let him. If we cut off the launderers, we'll shut down the Mob." He handed the evidence bag back to Gordon. "Use marked bills. Maroni's putting his money somewhere. But we can't do anything until we find out where."

Gordon ran his thumb over the words on the card. Bruce was gone before he looked up.

His feet connected with the roof of the neighboring building with a dull thud. He took a breath, staring down at the city street below. The noise of a siren assaulted his ears; he watched three police cars whizz down the road. In a moment, it was a cool, sunny day, and she was standing in front of him, touching his face. _This is your mask._ He blinked, but Rachel's face was still imprinted in his mind, her words still rang in his ears. Closing his eyes, he opened the wings of his suit and stepped off the edge. _The man I loved--the man who vanished--never came back at all._

The wind whipped past his face, whistling loudly in his ears. It caught the memory foam, and he was soaring. _But maybe he's still out there somewhere._ He opened his eyes, preparing to land on his penthouse building. His feet touched base with the roof, and he found himself gasping for his breath. The air was cool and painful in his throat. _Maybe someday, when Gotham doesn't need Batman, I'll see him again._

He slipped into his elevator, being delivered back to his hidden room. His stomach turned as he put the suit back in its box and emerged from the room in his boxers again. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes._ Harvey asked me to move in with him...and I agreed._ She said she'd wait for him. She said she would be there when Gotham didn't need him any longer.

But she was living with Harvey Dent.

He took a breath and started down the hall to his room. When he slipped through the door, Jessica was sitting up, staring out the window. Her eyes strayed up to him emotionlessly.

"You were gone."

He ran his tongue over his lips. "I, uh, went to the bathroom."

He crawled back into bed beside her, laying his head against the pillow. She looked down at him curiously.

"You put on your boxers and wifebeater to go to the bathroom in your own house?"

He shrugged wearily.

"Look," her voice was hoarse with sleep, "if you're into drugs or whatever...that's okay."

He propped himself up on his elbows and turned to look at her. "I'm not a drug addict."

She picked at her nails. "I'm just saying...if you've got an addiction--I'm not gonna...you know, judge you."

He kind of snickered, laying down against the cushions again and closing his eyes. "I'm not addicted to anything."

"Everybody's addicted to something."

He looked up at her, frowning thoughtfully. "What are you addicted to?"

She smiled, touching the side of his face. "Another night like this and I'll be addicted to _you."_

He snorted. "Come on. Seriously."

A strange look past over her face; she lowered herself to the bed and laid down next to him. "Look, I was just...Sorry. That was just a stupid thing to say. I'm tired and it's late."

"I don't think that's what it is."

She turned on her side and looked him in the eye. "Off the record?" She paused, shaking her head in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. This is just kind of weird."

He met her eyes with an amused smile. "What? No pillow talk with Sal?"

She scoffed. "No."

He laughed quietly, shifting onto his back. She drew closer to him, pressing her lips against his shoulder. She kissed down his collar until she was close enough to rest her head on his chest. He glanced down at her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"It's funny...how little you can know about the people you screw around with," she whispered.

He ran his fingers up and down her back. His chest rose and fell with a sigh.

"You can get naked with anybody, but you wouldn't tell them all your dirty little secrets," she continued.

He kissed the top of her head, turning his eyes to the ceiling.

"I think I'm addicted to failure," he told her.

She chuckled humorlessly. "You're _Bruce Wayne._ What have you ever failed at?"

He opened his mouth to say something, and closed it again. His eyelids fell over his gaze, and he didn't answer her. A silence stretched between them, and he assumed she'd fallen asleep. But then she spoke again:

"I'm sorry, that was kind of...that was harsh. You just seem so successful. But I guess it's not like your Superman."

Quiet again. She rubbed his breastbone absently.

"I'm addicted to...I think I'm addicted to security, you know? I need to be taken care of...constantly. I'm a basket case."

He sighed. "You don't seem like a basket case."

She glanced up at him, but his eyes were closed. She settled herself against him again.

"Isn't that the point?"


	7. versace

_Author's Note: Well, tomorrow I leave for school, which means the updates will be coming much, much slower now. I hope you've all enjoyed Part I of Night; Part II will begin as soon as I possibly can. Thanks again for all of your comments; and even for those of you who don't review--thanks for reading! I hope you're liking it!_

* * *

**Night**

* * *

**versace.**

Jessica opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling high above her head. She took a deep breath, almost afraid to glance over at the clock on the bedisde table. She hadn't really intended to stay over night. But the light of the summer morning was warm against her face, and Bruce's clock told her it was after nine. She craned her neck to glance at Bruce. He frowned in his sleep, his brow creased with some subconscious concern. A fleeting smile crossed her face. She sat up quietly, slipping out of bed.

She caught her reflection in the mirror and sighed. Her hair was a tangled mess of limp curls, and last night's make-up was smeared under her eyes. She turned her gaze quickly to the floor, noticing the crumpled heap that was her dress. She put it on and crept out of the room, wandering through the living room and into the kitchen. She was startled to see an older man standing at the stove with his back to her.

"Well, Master Wayne, I hardly expected to see you up so--"

He turned around, and his eyes widened a little. He gave her a charming little smile. "Well, excuse me, miss. It's not very often we get the pleasure of morning company."

She smiled awkwardly, taking his hand when he extended it to her.

"I'm Alfred."

"Jessica Sinclair."

She thought she caught a spark of familiarity in his eyes, but it quickly diminished. "Well, Miss Sinclair, might I interest you in a cup of tea? I'm sorry the coffee isn't quite perked yet; it's rare to see Master Wayne out of bed before 11:00." He nodded at the table. "Have a seat."

Unsure how to escape her current situation, Jessica was obliged to sit down. Alfred brought her a teacup and sat down across from her, casually taking a sip from his own cup.

"I suppose it's too much to hope that he _is_ awake."

She smiled a little and shook her head. "He's out."

Alfred sighed knowingly. "Yes, he's...always been a heavy sleeper. Even as a boy."

Jessica sipped at her tea, her foot tapping beneath the table. Her eyes wandered to the door, and Alfred noticed.

"I don't mean to be uncouth, Miss Sinclair--"

Her head jerked around to look him in the eye.

"But if you don't happen to be here when he wakes up, things will be easier on both of you."

She looked at him steadily, her mind carefully processing the implications of his words. "He's not the type that calls for a second date."

A melancholy smile lit his eyes; he nodded slowly, taking another sip of his tea. "No, I'm afraid he's not."

Jessica ran her tongue over her lips and stared at the steaming liquid in her cup.

"I'm sorry, dear. He's a fine man--a good man. But when it comes to women..." He paused, waiting for her to look up and meet his eyes. "Well, even the best of men are only men at best."

She nodded, getting up from the chair. His gaze remained fastened on hers, and softened appologetically as she started towards the door.

"Forgive--"

"It's okay," she blurted quickly, her hand on the doorknob. But his voice stopped her from escaping just yet:

"No. Forgive _him,"_ Alfred finished. Jessica met his eyes, her brow furrowed in confusion. But he only stared back at her, his eyes warm but unreadable; she pretended to understand, but she felt as if he was looking right through her.

"Alright," she whispered uncomfortably. She gave him one last, forced smile and left the room. She found her heels by the door and slipped them on, gripping her handbag as she pressed the down button on Bruce's elevator. She didn't release her bated breath until she was safe behind the sliding doors.

So she wasn't supposed to count on Bruce Wayne returning her calls. She heaved a frustrated sigh. It couldn't be over--not this soon. She was living in a hotel room, for the love of God. And he--he'd been mildly serious with her the night before, telling her he felt like a failure. That was conversational gold. For a guy as swaggering and charming as Bruce Wayne to tell her that--he had to trust her. This _couldn't_ be it. He wanted her--she was sure of it.

The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped into the lobby of the building. She didn't make eye contact with anyone at the front desk; she just strode to the door and into the street, allowing the noise of the city to consume her thoughts. She walked to the crosswalk and paused, raising her hand for a taxi. She noticed a bright red Ferrari stopped at the light, and met the eyes of the man inside. She kind of smiled, and he motioned at her to come up to the car. More curious than apprehensive, Jessica glanced at the still-red light and made her way to the passenger side of his car.

The window rolled down.

"Hey there."

She smiled. "Hey."

"You Jessica Sinclair?"

She tilted her head to the side. "Yeah...who's asking?"

He grinned, reaching over to get the car door. "Name's Finucci. I'm one of Sal's new guys."

Her eyes lit in interest. "Yeah?"

He nodded, his gaze flashing to the light. She saw it change to green; a moment later, the pile-up of cars behind Finucci were honking loudly. He jerked his head at the door, and she quickly slipped in. Finucci flipped off the driver attempting to pass him in the other lane, revving his engine.

"You have a nice car," she told him, running her fingertips along the leather seats. He smiled again, glancing at something in his rearview mirror. Something dark in his eyes upset her.

"It's not my car, baby," he told her quietly. Her stomach tightened. She stared at him with wide, fearful eyes.

"And you...you're not with Sal, are you?"

He grinned even wider, shaking his head. She tried to swallow, her hand gripping the door handle with white knuckles.

"Then how do you--"

Something covered her face, forcing a sweet, painful smell into her lungs. Her hands struggled to find the source in the darkness, but the edges of her world much too quickly faded away.


End file.
